


Would you love me more/If I killed someone for you?

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Grief/Mourning, Horror Elements, M/M, Major character death is Jerome I'm sorry guys, Murder, Obsession, as a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: The first time that Jeremiah meets Bruce he knows that Bruce isThe One.Bruce might be married to Jerome, but that's nothing that a little planning and a little push can't fix.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jerome/Bruce ends in tragedy, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 46
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miIkobitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miIkobitch/gifts).



> It's October, which means it's time to attempt horror-ish stories again. I'm sorry Bruce, I'm sorry Jerome. At least you were happy for a little while??? 
> 
> Title from If I Killed Someone For You by Alec Benjamin 
> 
> Would you love me more (would you love me more)  
> If I killed someone for you?  
> Would you hold my hands? (Would you hold my hands)  
> They're the same ones that I used  
> When I killed someone for you

Bruce is flushed from hours of dancing. His jacket and bowtie have been removed, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. He sways, gently rocking, in the loose circle of Jeremiah’s arms. Being so close to him feels _right_ in some intrinsic way, as if they were always meant to end up like this; dancing together. Jeremiah had never believed in fickle things like fate or destiny, but then, he’d never met anyone like Bruce before; had never met anyone who made him feel the way that Bruce made him feel from the moment their eyes locked on each other. 

The dance floor is dim, but when Bruce looks up to smile at Jeremiah his dark eyes catch the light being cast by nearby candles. Jeremiah thinks that he would stay like this forever, if he could. 

“Please be honest with me,” Bruce requests, voice hardly legible over the music, “are you enjoying yourself at all?”

Jeremiah swallows.

“I am.”

He’s beautiful. He’s perfect.

He’s married.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.” Bruce leans in a little closer. To be heard better, Jeremiah realizes, but that doesn’t stop the fluttering in his chest as Bruce easily drifts further into his space. “You looked so lonely, sitting there by yourself.” And perhaps lonely was one of the words that could be used to describe what Jeremiah had been feeling, before Bruce had come over with an offer to dance with him. He’s certainly not feeling lonely, now. “I wish we’d invited more of Jerome’s friends or family so that you wouldn’t be surrounded by strangers all night, but—” Bruce cuts himself off and his eyebrows furrow as his gaze darts down. His fingers twitch against Jeremiah’s jacket. Jeremiah wants to hold him closer, offer comfort, pet his hair and kiss him softly. “—he doesn’t really like talking to me about the time before we met. You were the only person he wanted invited to the wedding that I didn’t already know.”

To the wedding. 

To Jerome and Bruce’s wedding.

Jeremiah had received the invitation months ago and had considered not coming at all, because he couldn’t imagine that his notorious delinquent of a brother would have made a romantic connection with the sort of person who Jeremiah would want to get to know or associate with. Alas, appearances were important to him, and his cold reputation needed the occasional spark of warmth—even if it were falsified—to keep his peers from feeling as though he was so very different from them; his intelligence and artistry were already proof enough that he was above them in all ways that mattered. He needed to showcase his humanity, every once in a while, to keep the animosity of others who wished that they were him from boiling over and making a mess.

There was a grim curiosity, too, in the question of what sort of idiot would ever want to marry Jerome. He’d RSVPed and had a hotel and flight booked by his personal assistant, and had promptly forgotten about it until Thursday evening when a plane ticket was handed over to him with a promise that his best suit had already been dry cleaned, and a chirp of, “have a good time at the wedding, boss,” had reminded him of his commitment. 

He’d flown out Friday morning and had gotten settled in his hotel, texting Jerome to let him know that he’d arrived but not making any attempt to see his brother that evening, not that Jerome had gone out of his way to invite Jeremiah out for drinks or to catch up. It had been a long time since they had been close. The fact that they were in contact at all, however fleetingly, was mostly due to the fact that they were the only family that they had left, at least until Jerome went on to make a family of his own. Jeremiah had wondered if eventually they would stop talking altogether. He hadn’t been particularly bothered by the idea. 

Jeremiah hadn’t seen Bruce until the ceremony. Hadn’t spoken to him until he and Jerome were already bound together.

Hadn’t properly met him until Bruce belonged to someone else. 

Bruce was radiant in his happiness. Bruce was soft and kind. Bruce had looked up at him with a smile and something like wonder as Jerome introduced them after the ceremony, and just as Jeremiah was thinking to offer his hand for a handshake Bruce had darted forward to wrap his arms around his shoulders. A loose, gentle hug that made Jeremiah’s heart skip and his brain stall in a curious fashion. Bruce had stepped back before Jeremiah could even think to return the embrace.

“I’m so happy to finally meet you,” Bruce had told him.

Not as happy as I am to meet you, Jeremiah had thought; a new, raw emotion sprouting to life inside of him. 

Then Jerome’s arm had wrapped around the shoulders of Bruce and he’d pressed a series of playful kisses to Bruce’s cheek. The gentle warmth inside of Jeremiah’s chest had blazed into something violent and destructive as Bruce blushed and leaned into him.

You don’t deserve him, Jeremiah had thought. You don’t even deserve to share the same air as him. 

What good had Jerome ever done in his life that he’d managed to capture the attention of someone like Bruce?

“Glad you could come, Miah,” Jerome had said once he was done plying his husband with chaste kisses, and Jeremiah’s brain had worked on autopilot to respond in a way that wouldn’t end with him being given strange looks.

Jeremiah, so used to having what others wanted, found himself suddenly wishing for something that Jerome had managed to sink his claws into before Jeremiah had even known that Bruce was someone worth fighting for. Worth dying for.

“Excuse me.” In the present Jerome cuts between them, smirking at Jeremiah in a way that makes his fists clench. “I’ve got to dance with my husband,” he drawls out the final word in a low, pleased fashion, and then he takes Bruce’s hands and guides him away from Jeremiah.

Bruce laughs under his breath, but as he goes he glances back at Jeremiah.

He mouths ‘goodbye’ and lifts his hand, fingers dipping in a gentle wave before Jerome pulls him into a spin.

Worth killing for. 

x-x-x

Planning a murder is easy, or at least it is for someone as meticulous as him.

Bruce and Jerome’s honeymoon lasts for weeks, and Jeremiah does his best not to think too much about it, about what they’re doing, about the way Jerome was free to touch Bruce and be with Bruce while Jeremiah was stuck here, chasing ghosts of pleasant, too-short memories by fucking dark haired men who weren’t beautiful or soft or kind enough to deserve the gentleness that Bruce undoubtedly did.

He works, he sates his baser desires with strangers, he plans.

He plots out the date. He gives his credit card to his personal assistant and tells her that he wants her to go to certain shops at certain times to buy certain things. He’s always been particular enough that his request doesn’t alarm her. The shops he’s sending her to won’t have security cameras, and she’d learned how to forge his signature at his own request.

It had come in handy for something like this more than once, so Jeremiah knows she won’t fail him.

Alibi in place, he drives out to Gotham immediately after finishing work on Friday. He checks himself in to a grimy motel at the edge of the city at two in the morning, paying cash and receiving anonymity. On a Saturday afternoon two weeks after the couple’s arrival back home—nearly a month after the wedding—Jeremiah sends a text.

‘We need to talk. It’s about mother. Meet me at midnight tonight on the roof of Meyer and Hayes.’

He turns off his phone and he knows that, as soon as Jerome sees the text, he’ll delete it.

He wouldn’t want to chance anyone seeing. Anyone asking questions.

They meet. Jerome is pissed off. Jerome doesn’t understand why Jeremiah wants to talk about something that happened so long ago when they’ve both moved on. Jerome wants him to leave Gotham and never come back. 

Jerome falls to his death.

And Jeremiah goes home and waits for a phone call from police officers who will tell him that his brother is dead. 

x-x-x

They meet again in the silent moments before a wake begins instead of the clamorous aftermath of a wedding.

Bruce, teary eyed and shaking even before people outside of immediately family are let in, breaks down completely when he spots Jeremiah. It’s almost enough to make Jeremiah hesitate in his approach, Bruce’s blatant misery causing something in his chest to ache, but he still walks towards him to offer his falsified condolences. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bruce says, hiding his face behind his hands. “It’s just—it’s just that—”

“I look like him,” Jeremiah murmurs with as much understanding as he can manage. There are people on either side of Bruce, bracketing him in a protective fashion. He’d seen them at the wedding, too. An older man, a young woman with curly hair. Bruce’s family. People whose trust he would have to gain, too, if this was going to work out for him. “And you miss him.” When he next speaks he allows his voice to quiver with something that will be mistaken for an emotion that it is not. “I miss him, too.”

Bruce looks up from between his fingers. His eyes, glossy with tears, glimmer in a way that makes Jeremiah want to press kisses to his cheeks and vow eternal loyalty and never-ending love.

“Oh,” Bruce’s voice cracks. “Oh, of course—of course you do. Oh, Jeremiah.” His arms open and Jeremiah bridges the gap between them. This is the closest that they have ever been, and Jeremiah secretly revels in it. Bruce is trembling in his arms. His hot tears are slicking the skin of Jeremiah’s neck even though he is sure that Jerome had never done anything to deserve being cried over. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Bruce,” he lies, holding Bruce tighter. “He was—he was my brother, and I know that he was sometimes difficult to understand, but we were close.” Long ago. “And I loved him.” Long ago. “And if you need anything, anything at all, please, ask me. You and I, we’re family,” he says. The one good thing Jerome had ever done with his life, giving Jeremiah a connection to the person who could make him feel whole. “And families look out for each other.”

Bruce clutches at him even tighter.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” he whispers. “Jerome was—he was… So many people, they didn’t understand why I loved him, they didn’t—they didn’t know him like I know him, like you know him. Or, like we _knew_ him, I guess.” His voice breaks. The two who had been standing guard around him look as though they wish they could help him, but perhaps even they hadn’t understood what Bruce had seen in Jerome which could have possibly drawn Bruce towards him. Jeremiah is who Bruce feels understands his grief the most, in this moment, and Jeremiah will do nothing to dissuade that notion. “Oh, Jeremiah, I miss him so much. I loved him so much. More than anyone, more than anything. Sometimes,” his voice drops to an even lower whisper, low enough that no one but Jeremiah can hear. “I feel like I’m the only one who’s really mourning him, and everyone else… They’re just sad for me, not—not because he’s gone, but because I’m—I’m alone again, just like—just like when my parents were murdered.” 

Jeremiah soothingly runs a hand up and down along his back. 

“I’ll mourn him with you,” he whispers back. “If you ever want to talk to someone who understands, please, talk to me.”

“Thank you, Jeremiah,” Bruce says as he pulls away, still sniffling. The woman with curly hair wraps an arm around his shoulders, but Bruce doesn’t look away from him. “I’m so glad that you’re here. Will you stay up at the front with me?”

“Anything for you, Bruce.”

Anything for you.

The wake ends. Bruce is a wreck. There are press waiting right outside the doors; filthy scavengers eager for a shot of Gotham’s billionaire widower to go with their angst-ridden articles detailing the most recent tragedy of Bruce Wayne’s life and comparing it to the earliest. Jeremiah already hates them on principle, and he’s obviously not the only one. Alfred and Selina, Bruce’s family of choice, eye the vultures from behind the glass windows, frowns on their faces and their hackles obviously raised. 

Jeremiah needs them to trust him, at least for now, so that he can get even closer without them getting in his way. 

“I can take him home,” he offers. “I parked at the back of the building, and I sincerely doubt that anyone would have a problem with Bruce using a fire exit to get out of here so that he doesn’t get bombarded.”

The pair purse their lips, eyeing him up and down as if they’re not sure what to think of him.

Bruce, however, grips onto his hand.

“Please,” he says softly. “Please. I want to go home.”

Selina and Alfred go out the front, and they are such well-known figures when it comes to Bruce that they are swarmed by expectant press who assume that Bruce will not be far behind. Meanwhile Bruce tucks himself into the passenger seat of Jeremiah’s car and stares, unseeing, out the window until they reach Wayne Manor, where he comes back to himself with a blink and a shuddering inhale. 

“Would you like to come inside,” he offers, sounding drained. “Although I might not be the best company, right now.”

“I think you’re the best company that I could have, right now,” Jeremiah tells him lowly. “You knew him like I knew him. You’re the person closest to missing him like I miss him. He was family, Bruce. Mine and yours. He was our family.”

Bruce closes his eyes and trembles.

“Will you tell me about him? About what he was like when he was younger? I do know a little bit, but he was always so closed off when his past came up. I just—I just wish that he was still here, and that I could ask him questions. I wanted to, I really did. I thought we’d get there eventually, and I would know all of the things that he hid from everybody else, and—”

“It’s alright, Bruce. I can tell you everything I know.”

And he does. In the quiet intimacy of a dimly lit kitchen he and Bruce sip at glasses of water and pick at leftovers found in the fridge, and Jeremiah tells Bruce about growing up with Jerome in the circus. But for certain stories and histories, in order to make it seem as though he and Jerome hadn’t started drifting apart…

He lies, and Bruce doesn’t suspect a thing. Bruce is too trusting. Jeremiah is too good a liar.

Alfred and Selina peek in on them, once, as if to make sure Jeremiah isn’t doing anything nefarious. He feels insulted—he’d never do anything to hurt Bruce, he’d only ever act out of love for Bruce—but he manages to keep his face from showing the irritation at their continuous, unnecessary concern. 

And when Bruce starts yawning and tiredly offers Jeremiah a room to stay for the night, he accepts.

And in the morning when Bruce asks if he’ll stay at Wayne Manor until the funeral, he accepts.

“Thank you,” Bruce says before Jeremiah leaves to pick his suitcase up from the hotel. “Thank you. I’m glad that I’ll have you with me.”

And I’m glad that I’ll be with you.

I’ll never leave you alone.

x-x-x

The funeral is scheduled to take place two days after the wake.

Jeremiah makes the most of his time. 

In the morning he comforts Bruce when he finds the young man crying, alone, in the Manor’s study. He assures Bruce that he understands exactly what he’s going through, he even manages to wipe away some of Bruce’s tears before Selina, who’s also staying over until the funeral and who Jeremiah has begun to feel great distaste for, comes between them and draws Bruce away.

He glares at her back as she goes, and once they’re out of sight he lifts up his tear-damp fingertips in order to gaze at them. Jerome had never done anything to deserve being wept over. Bruce would realize that, eventually, when the shock of his sudden loss faded away. 

Jeremiah presses the slick fingers to his mouth and wonders what kissing Bruce will feel like.

Heaven on earth, he thinks. 

In the afternoon Bruce is kept away from him, flitting between Alfred and Selina’s care as if they know what’s best for him, as if they don’t want him and Jeremiah to be alone together. It’s enraging enough that it’s difficult to keep from sneering at them, but he somehow manages to stay on his best behaviour. 

In the evening, though, Jeremiah puts on a subtle performance at dinner. Under the cover of the table he digs a stolen fork into his thigh until the pain is sharp enough that tears prick his eyes. He is quiet, melancholic, mourning. 

Bruce is the one who approaches him, this time.

Jeremiah plays at gazing out the window when in reality he is gazing at Bruce’s downcast reflection in the glass, and he doesn’t even have to carefully ask Bruce about what the police are thinking, because he brings up the investigation himself. 

“They asked me if—if he’d been acting strange at all, and—and there was something about him that afternoon and evening that I did find odd, but up until then he’d been his usual self.” In the reflection Bruce sighs and covers his face with one hand. Jeremiah hates when he tries to hide away, it makes his chest ache strangely. Jeremiah wishes Bruce knew that he didn’t have to hide, not from him. Never from him. 

“When they were questioning me they brought up that he had a sealed juvenile record, as if—as if that was supposed to explain why he died. I did know, I don’t know what he did, but I knew he had a record. I loved him, still. No matter what he did, I’ll always love him.” Such loyalty and faithfulness. Jeremiah could be just as loyal, just as faithful. Ten times so, even. “We were happy, we loved each other, he didn’t—he didn’t jump. He wouldn’t. That means someone—someone—” 

Jeremiah turns away from the window at long last, and when he reaches out to wrap an arm around Bruce’s shoulders Bruce leans against him, seeking comfort in him.

“Someone killed him, Jeremiah,” he says under his breath. “Someone killed Jerome.”

Jeremiah runs a hand through Bruce’s hair and barely resists the urge to press a kiss to the crown of his head.

I know, darling.


	2. Chapter 2

The funeral is even worse than the wake, with even more press.

When he walks with Bruce from the fresh gave back to the car Jeremiah shields him as best as he can, and he doesn’t hold back the scathing looks that are enough to make some of the reporters and photographers stumble back, brief flashes of fear dancing across their faces even without Jeremiah verbally threatening them. Alfred opens the door for Bruce to get in the passenger’s side, and Jeremiah swallows down the flood of loathing at the knowledge that he will not be sitting beside Bruce, will not be able to comfort Bruce.

Jeremiah instead settles behind Bruce, next to Selina. They don’t so much as look at each other, their gaze fixed on the person seemingly doomed to be the center of the entire city’s attention. 

The sound of Bruce sobbing uncontrollably on the drive back to the Manor rips Jeremiah up inside.

He doesn’t deserve your tears. He could never deserve your tears. 

As soon as he is home Bruce begins to drink, although it is barely past one in the afternoon. By three o’clock Bruce is tipsy and overflowing with sorrow, and Jeremiah is so desperate for Bruce to focus on him and not his woes that he does the first thing that comes to mind.

He takes off his glasses and ruffles his hair to turn it into a mess. 

It’s been more than fifteen years since he’s done this on purpose. 

Bruce stares at him, dull eyes sparking to life once again. 

“It’s not—not exactly the same.” Bruce reaches up with a shaking hand and touches the side of his face. Jeremiah’s heart flutters in his chest and he has to force himself into stillness. “Your eyes and hair are a little darker than his were.” Bruce’s thumb gently grazes against his cheek. “You have less freckles, too.” Bruce’s doe eyes look him over, and Jeremiah never wants him to look away. “But your mouth—” His hand and eyes abruptly drop away. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” Jeremiah takes the hand that had rested so softly against his cheek, and he brings it to his face again. Bruce looks back up at him, eyes glimmering, and Jeremiah’s heart races. “We were told often, as children, that we had the same smile.”

“I loved his smile,” Bruce warbles.

You’ll love mine even more. 

“I loved him because—because he always found ways to make me smile. He made it so easy to feel carefree and untroubled for more than just a few minutes at a time, and he loved my smile, too. We were happy,” he whispers, gaze no longer focusing on Jeremiah’s face. “We were so, so happy.” 

Bruce stops drinking, though he doesn’t quite sober up by dinner. Selina takes the seat beside him at the table and Jeremiah is left with the seat across from him, but Bruce’s friend takes up all of his attention, and Selina occasionally glances at Jeremiah for a fraction of a second—as if he wouldn’t notice—as if she wants to demand to know why he’s still here.

Unable to make the offer to delay his flight for another day with Bruce’s catty friend dissecting his every move, Jeremiah packs his bags after dinner and prepares to leave.

Before he goes he and Bruce exchange numbers, and Bruce gives him another lingering hug.

“Text me when you’ve gotten home safe.”

He calls, instead.

Bruce—beautiful, kind, incredibly lonely Bruce—asks if he’d ever be willing to come to Gotham for a visit.

“Anything for you.”

x-x-x

He dreams of Bruce laid out upon heaps and heaps of donated flowers, alone in his misery, sinking into the petals and greenery as if they, too, are meant to act as a burial site. But Jeremiah finds him before he can sink beneath the surface on his own. He holds Bruce’s hands and kisses away Bruce’s tears. He promises Bruce that he will never leave him alone. 

Together they are buried. 

In the dark of their makeshift grave they make love, and the world becomes bright again.

Laid amongst the withered remains of a funeral’s flowers, Bruce is radiant with happiness.

x-x-x 

He makes another special request of his personal assistant when he arrives back to work: touched up photos. 

He spins a tale of separate lives and lost time and a desire for images of his brother and himself together so that, even if the memories are falsified, he can feel as though they had more time together. She is, predictably, all compassion and goodness as she promises to find him the best of the best who will, for an additional fee, not use the manipulated images in any sort of portfolio or post them online. 

“I’d rather not have my face plastered all over the internet, you know how emotional stories like this end up getting out of hand and shared all over social media,” he says, a false tremble in his voice. “I’ll find separate pictures of myself and Jerome and sort them into category by age. Would you be so kind as to take care of the rest for me?”

“Of course, boss.” Her hand is steady on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Piece by piece, Jeremiah begins to put together an album; real memories abruptly but imperceptibly transitioning into fake. 

Piece by piece he builds up the lie. 

x-x-x

He starts to visit Bruce every other weekend under the guise of working through their grief together. It is difficult, at times, to see Bruce so forlorn even though Jeremiah is with him, but Jeremiah reminds himself that the game that he has entered into is a long one.

And that the prize at the end will be so worth the time spent playing. 

“It’s been more than a month,” Bruce says to him towards the end of his third visit, eyes glossy though he is no longer actively crying from the mere act of looking at pictures of Jerome as a child, teenager, young adult, with Jeremiah alongside him in nearly every one. Candid shots and staged photos, seamlessly done and remarkably real; worth every penny in furthering the illusion that Jeremiah was mourning for his brother just a keenly as Bruce was. “I’ve been a widower for longer than I was married, now.”

Jeremiah reaches out to hold Bruce’s hands. 

“I’m here for you, Bruce.”

Bruce’s fingers grip at him tight, as if he’s afraid to let Jeremiah go. As if he doesn’t want to let Jeremiah go. As if he wants Jeremiah to stay with him just as much as Jeremiah desires the exact same thing. It isn’t difficult at all for Jeremiah to bring up the idea that it might be better for them both if his visits change to become every weekend. 

He leaves the album in a calculated act of kindness, citing how much time he’d already spent looking at the photos housed within when he’d only glanced them over to look for any obvious signs of tampering before he went through each one with Bruce, sharing anecdotes with practiced ease. When they part he thinks of Bruce looking at the pictures, of Bruce noticing him in the pictures, of Bruce’s focus eventually shifting until it is not Jerome who Bruce opens the album to look upon fondly. 

On Jeremiah’s next visit Bruce cries less and smiles more.

Eventually he will realize that Jerome was never worth any of his tears at all. 

x-x-x

Week by week, step by step, inch by inch, the space between them diminishes. 

Bruce still, regrettably, talks about Jerome—Jeremiah uses up all his willpower to continue to look the way Bruce expects him to look, to react the way Bruce expects him to react, because he’s been sick of hearing about his brother since day one—but their conversation does branch off into other topics, now. Bruce is healing from the shock of sudden loss. Soon Bruce will be free from Jerome’s sway. Soon Bruce will be Jeremiah’s, in the way that he was always meant to be.

“I’m so glad that I have you as a brother-in-law,” Bruce admits softly, leaning against Jeremiah’s side. It’s second-nature for them both, now, for Bruce to lean into him; for Jeremiah to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Alfred doesn’t even react to it any more, whenever he does happen to intrude upon their time together. “You’ve helped me so much, Jeremiah, I don’t know if I could ever thank you enough.”

He hasn’t cried tonight, but his mood has been very low. A few days from now will be the third anniversary of Jerome and Bruce’s first date, and Bruce has had nearly a full bottle of wine by himself as he once again flipped through the album, asking for Jeremiah to share stories that Jeremiah just wants Bruce to forget about altogether. 

“Knowing that I’m helping you is all the thanks that I need.”

It’s getting harder and harder to leave Bruce behind.

Jeremiah had already started looking into being transferred to an office closer to Gotham before Jerome and Bruce had come back from their honeymoon. There are just a few projects that need his particular kind of finishing touch, and then he’ll be free to see Bruce every day. He’ll keep it secret, for the first little while, so that he can watch Bruce for a week or two and get an understanding for where he goes, what he likes, who he’s closest to, who might need to be dealt with quickly and efficiently and brutally. Afterwards he’ll spring the news and casually mention how he’s in between places, and Bruce, always so happy to open his home to him—

His inner thoughts break off when Bruce sets aside the album and mentions needing to sleep off his several glasses of wine. Jeremiah stands first and offers Bruce a hand up, and maybe he pulls a little too hard, or maybe Bruce has a little more strength left than expected, or maybe it’s destiny, but Bruce stumbles and almost ends up falling, only Jeremiah’s steady hands keep him off of the floor.

“What would I do without you, Jeremiah?” Bruce asks, though his gaze is distant and his tone is gloomy. He’s thinking about Jerome again and Jeremiah hates it, hates it, hates it more than anything. When would it end? When would Bruce understand that he was better off this way? When would Bruce realize that Jerome didn’t deserve his tears or thoughts or gentle touches, and most certainly hadn’t been worthy of his love? Jeremiah bites back a scathing comment, though it is becoming harder and harder to when he _knows_ what he knows with such certainty.

“What would I do without you?” He asks instead of answering. “I can’t imagine either of us mourning alone. It would be a terrible fate, I think, to have not found each other.”

Bruce—

Bruce leans in towards him. Soft, gentle.

The touch of his lips against Jeremiah’s cheek is feather-light. 

Jeremiah’s breath catches.

“Goodnight, Jeremiah,” Bruce whispers. He’s still close enough that his breath is a caress against Jeremiah’s face.

Jeremiah turns his head and kisses him; a mere brush of lips, barely there. A test. Bruce goes rigid, then melts, then goes rigid again in the span of a few seconds. 

“Stop,” Bruce utters, though he doesn’t push Jeremiah away. He doesn’t push Jeremiah away and it takes all of Jeremiah’s willpower not to pin Bruce to the wall and keep kissing him, kissing him, kissing him and stripping him—

“This wouldn’t be right,” Bruce says as he pulls back, even though it would be the most _right_ thing in the world. Right in the way that it had felt when they danced. Right in the way that it felt whenever Jeremiah held Bruce in his arms. “I’m sorry. We’re both so lonely now, aren’t we?”

“I’m not lonely when I’m with you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, but Jeremiah _knows_ that it’s the same for Bruce.

They soothe each other. They complete each other. They love each other.

Bruce doesn’t realize it yet, still caught up in the dredges of mourning for someone who could have never deserved him, but he will soon.

The long game has reached past its halfway point. Jeremiah knows it. Jeremiah can feel it. 

“Goodnight Jeremiah.”

“Goodnight Bruce.”

Goodnight, my darling. 

x-x-x

Bruce tries to cancel their next weekend—citing a different, long-standing arrangement with another friend—but Jeremiah knows what to say, knows how to say it, knows how to get under Bruce’s skin in the most important ways. He cannot miss any time with Bruce. To go without him for a week would be hell.

And who the fuck was so important to Bruce that he’d try to shut Jeremiah out in favour of them?

He walks into a bistro with Bruce on _their_ weekend, and the sight that greets him makes his hair stand on end.

_Her again._

His fists clench.

Selina obviously isn’t happy to see him, either, though she is much, much worse at hiding it. Her face is stormy when Bruce approaches her, with Jeremiah hanging back to observe. 

“Bruce, this is—” Selina’s voice drops, but Jeremiah can still hear her. “This is our thing. A me-and-you thing.”

_A me-and-you thing._

Jeremiah wonders if he’s going to have to kill her. 

“Selina, please. You’re both my friends, and it would mean a lot to me if you could try to get along.” Only someone truly heartless would be able to deny Bruce when he asked for something so softly. It will take effort—so much effort; sometimes he finds himself slipping whenever Bruce glances away from him, his face going blank of all the emotions that Bruce expects because he is exhausted from simulated grief—but Jeremiah could try to pretend to play nice. “I’ll come alone next time, I promise.”

The idea of Bruce being here alone with this woman—who’s known Bruce for longer than Jerome had, who’d offered him comfort before Jeremiah could, who was so important that Bruce would consider spending time with her _instead_ of spending time with Jeremiah—makes something inside of Jeremiah clench. 

He is going to have to kill her, he realizes. It will be a shame for Bruce to go into mourning again, but he’ll have Jeremiah to comfort him. He’ll always have Jeremiah. 

And maybe this is what will finally bring Jeremiah into the final stretch of the game. Maybe Selina’s death would be the tragedy that brought Jeremiah and Bruce together in the way that they are meant to be.

Jeremiah settles beside Bruce at the table and forces his lips to turn upwards as he looks at Selina—her reaction to it isn’t what it ought to be. She narrows her eyes and her lips thin, as if she can see that his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Jeremiah’s mask is wearing thin after months of being worn for hours at a time—and under the table his leg brushes against Bruce’s.

Bruce doesn’t retreat.

Jeremiah eats and converses and shares secret, genuine smiles with Bruce while Selina watches them with a pinched expression and unsubtle dislike. Her expression gentles whenever Bruce focusses on her, but that is even more unforgivable in Jeremiah’s eyes. Through it all in the back of his mind he wonders what the best way to end her life would be. 

Before they part Bruce hugs her; it lingers for too long, they’re too close, Jeremiah absolutely can’t stand it and he’s glad that neither of them are looking at him because he is sure that his expression is a true reflection of his feelings. 

He and Jerome had been close, long ago, and Jerome’s death had been quick because of it. A few seconds of fear and falling before the force of his body on the concrete spelled his end instantaneously. 

Pushing Selina won’t be enough. He’ll have to use other methods. 

“I’m sorry about Selina,” Bruce says under his breath as they leave her behind. Jeremiah can feel her glaring daggers at his back, and he wants to cut her open and make her bleed in agony for hours before she finally dies. “She’s always been very protective of me. If it makes you feel any better, she was even worse with Jerome.” Bruce doesn’t sniffle as he says the name, doesn’t grimace, doesn’t cry. “I think she cussed him out a few times at the very beginning of our relationship, although neither one of them admitted it to me.”

Jeremiah wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce leans into him.

He thinks about making love to Bruce in the aftermath of another funeral.

x-x-x

He plots, he plans, he gathers information, he builds an alibi. 

His final project at his home office finishes, and he starts three weeks of vacation before officially transferring to the new office. 

For the first week he sees Bruce every day, just as planned. He tails him and watches him and observes all the people around him, keen eyes searching for anyone else who might be so close that Bruce would push Jeremiah away in favour of them. 

On the weekend he slips into their usual routine, but there are a few exceptions.

Bruce doesn’t look through the album with him. Bruce doesn’t mention Jerome’s name. When Bruce goes silent his eyes aren’t filled with gloom but are instead sharp. Bruce looks at him, and Jeremiah feels…

Seen. Truly seen.

It makes his heart flutter.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce starts lowly on Saturday evening. His thigh is pressed up against Jeremiah’s on the couch, and Jeremiah is sure that the closeness is on purpose. “A few weeks ago you said—you said that you weren’t lonely when you were with me. I’m sorry that I’ve taken this long to tell you, but it’s the same for me. When I’m with you… I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’m more connected to you than anyone else, like you understand me better than anyone else.”

It’s love. It’s love. It’s love.

When will you realize that it’s love?

“And I guess I just want to say that you’re very important to me, Jeremiah. I’m glad that we became friends. I think that, without you, I’d still be a wreck.”

You would. You would. I’m the one who makes you smile instead of Jerome, now. I’ll make you smile more than he did. I’ll make you happier than he did. I’ll be better in every way. I’ll be everything he couldn’t be. I’ll be the husband that you deserve. 

He leans closer to Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t retreat. He holds Bruce’s hand, and Bruce holds him back.

Jeremiah doesn’t think he can wait anymore. 

This time, when he kisses Bruce, Bruce doesn’t tell him to stop, but he doesn't kiss him back, either.

“Jeremiah,” he murmurs against Jeremiah’s mouth, hesitance evident in his tone. “I’m not—I’m not sure if—”

“It’s alright, Bruce,” Jeremiah reassures him, pulling back even though parting from Bruce is enough to make his entire being ache. “Everything is alright, I promise. You’re very important to me, too. I feel connected to you, too. We understand each other, Bruce.”

I understand you better than anyone.

Bruce stares up at him, eyes roving across his face. He still looks uncertain, but Jeremiah can change that.

When Jeremiah kisses Bruce it is gentle and soft and everything that Bruce deserves. When Jeremiah’s fingers trail up under his sweater it is affectionate and adoring. When Jeremiah’s teeth skim his throat it is with a barely-restrained urge to mark him in a way that will last. 

When Bruce’s arms fold around his shoulders it feels right. It feels like true love. 

“Jeremiah,” Bruce breathes. His face is hidden in the crook of Jeremiah’s neck. Jeremiah hates when he hides himself away. “Jeremiah.”

“Don’t hide from me, Bruce,” he voices the demand as a gentle request. It wouldn’t do to get pushy now, when things were finally falling into place. “Never from me.”

In his arms Bruce begins to tremble.


	3. Chapter 3

Even as it happens Jeremiah realizes that this is a precious memory in the making. That this is the tipping point. That this is where the end finally comes into sight. Even if Bruce’s touches are tentative, he is still touching. Even if his kisses are soft, he is still kissing. Jeremiah’s mind spins and his heart races as he wonders what would happen if he leaned forward even more, until Bruce was pinned to the arm of the couch that they’re sitting on. Would Bruce tell him to stop? Would Bruce attempt to hide his face? Would Bruce’s hands dig into Jeremiah’s hair and bring him closer? His tongue flicks out of his mouth, dragging across the seam of Bruce’s lips, and Bruce jolts.

He’s so adorable. Jeremiah can’t wait to do this every day. 

It won’t be much longer, now.

“I think—” Bruce says, and Jeremiah presses kisses to his cheek, to his jaw, down his neck. He feels as if he is overflowing with love. He feels as if he and Bruce are the true center of the universe. Bruce’s hands settle on his shoulders. “I think—”

That you want me? That you love me? That you can’t live without me?

“We should stop.”

Against the soft skin of Bruce’s neck Jeremiah’s lips twist into a snarl while Bruce’s gentle hands begin to push him away. Jeremiah resists for a few moments, thoughts fluctuating wildly. It wouldn’t take much to ignore him, to kiss him more, to touch him more, to make him feel enough pleasure that Bruce forgot all about whatever ridiculous reservations he was still clinging onto. There was no need for Bruce to be so shy, so nervous, when all Jeremiah wanted to do was make Bruce feel good and forget everything else and become even more connected to him.

“Jeremiah?” His hands begin to push harder, and Jeremiah allows himself to be guided back while his expression morphs into something hurt and confused. Bruce, tender-hearted soul that he is, looks upon him with obvious concern. His face is a little flushed and Jeremiah takes a small amount of comfort in that, although he’d rather Bruce look much more disheveled. 

“I’m sorry.” The lie slides easily over Jeremiah’s tongue. He is not sorry for any of it. If anything he is sorry that he didn’t go faster. Perhaps, if Jeremiah had slipped a hand into Bruce’s pants to pet at his cock, Bruce wouldn’t have felt like pushing him away. He’ll have to remember that for next time. “I got carried away. I hope—” He forces his voice to crack. He digs his nails into his palms until the stinging is enough to cause a reaction that will be misinterpreted. “I hope that you’ll forgive me.”

“You don’t need my forgiveness, Jeremiah. It wasn’t only you.” Bruce’s fingers twitch on his shoulders before dropping away. “You’re a very dear friend to me, and your support has meant so much.” Bruce shifts to make a little more room between them, and Jeremiah feels as if his blood is turning into ice. “But we’re both still actively grieving. Neither of us are emotionally rational enough to be acting on whatever it is that we think we might feel for each other.”

Jeremiah _knows_ what he feels. He knows what Bruce feels, too. 

“We’ve gotten so close over the past several months, but whatever’s between us…” Bruce trails off and averts his eyes. “This situation is new, and very confusing. I don’t want us to do anything that we’ll regret later.”

Jeremiah turns away, but only because he can feel his mask begin to crack.

“You think that I only feel close to you because I’ve been mourning with you.” He just barely keeps his tone from being accusatory. “You think that I wouldn’t be friends with you if it weren’t for the fact that we were able to find comfort with each other after Jerome’s death.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

Jeremiah stands, entire body rigid. He can’t believe that Bruce would even entertain the idea that Jeremiah’s feelings were driven by something as whimsical as shared grief. 

“Jeremiah, please, won’t you look at me?”

The sound of Bruce’s voice is almost enough to break his heart. To ignore him would hurt them both. To leave would hurt them both. But there is a vindictive part of him that thinks that it would be worth it; if they were both hurting then they could both make it up to each other later. To say a curt goodnight and leave without turning back would perhaps prompt Bruce to approach him later, full of regret for making Jeremiah feel this way and wanting to apologize for causing any pain. Bruce _needed_ him; needed the comfort of his words and his smiles and his arms. 

Perhaps it would be for the best for Bruce to realize just how much he depended on Jeremiah. 

“Jeremiah, please, talk to me?” 

Jeremiah makes his decision.

It would hurt them both, but in the end it would be better for them.

“Goodnight, Bruce.”

He leaves the room without turning back, because if he sees any tears in Bruce’s eyes he is sure that his resolve will start to crumble, though that doesn’t stop him from hoping that his departure has reduced Bruce to tears. If Bruce cried over the idea of losing Jeremiah just as he’d cried over losing Jerome he’d realize, wouldn’t he, that even if what he was feeling was new and confusing, it was also genuine and significant?

Wouldn’t he realize that it was love?

Jeremiah lifts his fingers to his mouth, the faint recollection of the taste of Bruce’s tears sparking in his memory. 

He had wiped them away before. He would wipe them away again. 

He shuts himself inside of his borrowed room—his room, he’s come to think of it as. It had been his room ever since the first time he stayed over. It would only stop being his room once Bruce’s bedroom became _their_ room—and lays in bed, fully clothed, mind slowly spinning. He feels restless, all of his amorous energy having steadily built up before Bruce had put an end to things, but he’s also certain that Bruce will not be able to stand being parted from him for long. Bruce will come to him, Bruce will apologize, and Jeremiah will be ready to accept Bruce with open arms without having to scramble to tuck himself back into his pants first. 

He folds his hands on his chest and breathes steadily, staring up at the ceiling. 

After about ten minutes there is a soft knock on his door.

“Jeremiah.” Bruce’s voice is muffled through the wood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Jeremiah feels himself grin as he swings his legs over the bed, though he tempers his expression as he strides towards the closed door. “I know that we’d still be friends, even if… Even if we didn’t lose Jerome.” That name again. Jeremiah is so sick of hearing that name. Wasn’t Bruce equally sick of speaking it? “Jeremiah, won’t you talk to me? I can’t stand the thought of you being angry with me. If I didn’t have you I—I don’t know what I’d do.”

You’d be lonely, Bruce. So, so lonely without me.

You need me. You need me just as much as I need you. 

Jeremiah lays a hand upon the door.

“I’m not angry with you, Bruce.”

There is silence for a few moments, before Bruce’s emotion-laden voice carries through to him.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

He can hear a faint rush of air; a relieved sigh.

“Will you open the door?”

He does.

Bruce’s eyes are teary, but it is not because of Jerome. Jeremiah is the one who he’s been crying over this time, but that’s okay. Jeremiah _is_ worthy of Bruce’s tears. If Bruce is to cry over anyone, it _should_ be Jeremiah. 

Someday it will _only_ be Jeremiah.

Jeremiah opens his arms, forgiving and benevolent, and Bruce rushes into them and clutches at the back of Jeremiah’s shirt, sniffling. His face is tucked against Jeremiah’s throat, but Jeremiah will allow him to hide away, just this once, since this is the first time that Jeremiah has purposefully done anything that could upset him.

Well, other than murdering Bruce’s husband and planning to murder his oldest friend, but in the grand scheme of things all of that really was for the best, just as his cold departure downstairs had been. Still… It was a mystifying thing, to be cried over. Jeremiah has made people cry, certainly, but never like this. Usually they cried because he’d degraded them and physically hurt them. Usually they cried because it was all they could think to do when they knew that their end was coming and no one would be saving them. 

Jeremiah lays a hand in Bruce’s hair and holds him close.

“I forgive you, Bruce.”

Bruce clutches him tighter.

“Thank you.”

This is still a tipping point, Jeremiah thinks to himself. This is still where the end comes into sight. Because Bruce needs him, because Bruce can’t stand the idea of Jeremiah being mad at him, because Bruce would be so lonely without him. He’d been hoping for a little more intimacy, but he could console himself with the knowledge that Bruce had shed tears because of him.

The intimacy would happen next time, in the aftermath of a funeral. 

He thinks about it that night, not long after Bruce had left his doorway. He thinks about funeral flowers and teary eyes, he thinks about Bruce feeling alone in his misery until Jeremiah reminds him that he will never be lonely ever again. He fists his cock and imagines what it will be like to make Bruce forget all about the people who didn’t deserve to be close to him.

He thinks about making love to Bruce on Jerome’s grave.

His muscles clench. His toes curl. His eyes close.

He thinks about Bruce begging him to keep going. He thinks about Bruce desperately licking into his mouth. He thinks about Bruce sucking his cock. He thinks about Bruce’s ass clenching around his fingers. He thinks about Bruce rocking in his lap, calling his name and holding his hands.

He thinks of Bruce; happy and radiant.

He thinks of sneaking into Bruce’s bedroom and kissing him and touching him as he sleeps.

x-x-x

In the morning he is expecting their usual Sunday routine together; breakfast and coffee and long conversations until Jeremiah has to leave in the afternoon so that he can pretend to be boarding a flight back home. 

But instead there is an interloper disturbing the status quo. 

Sat at the kitchen table, going through that photo album again—just when Jeremiah had thought that maybe Bruce was finally getting over the compulsion to look at photos of his late husband—Bruce and Selina sit next to each other, heads ducked together. They’re too close, too close, far too close—

Selina is the first one to notice that he’s entered the room, and the look she sends his way is just as pointedly unfriendly as it had been the last time that they’d crossed paths. Jeremiah’s lips twitch with a suppressed sneer that he cannot allow to show because Bruce looks up a few moments later, a wan smile on his face.

“Good morning,” Bruce greets, as if nothing about this is unusual. As if Selina frequently drops in on their weekends together. As if her presence is _wanted_ instead of being entirely _unwelcome._ “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” he responds somewhat stiffly, too on edge to sound completely casual, as he slides into the seat across from Bruce. 

Bruce—who had kissed him, held him, cried over him last night—allows his attention to drift back to the album; pointing out favored photos while Selina obligingly looks and listens. Bruce has memorized the false anecdotes behind every false picture by now, and he flips through the album page by page, sharing it all with Selina and sending only the occasional glance Jeremiah’s way. 

Had she asked to see the photos? Was it because of her that Bruce felt the need to seek out memories of Jerome again?

Underneath the table Jeremiah’s hands curl into tight fists.

If she weren’t here… If she hadn’t shown up…

If she were already out of the picture…

Bruce picks at his breakfast—his appetite was always poor when he was reminiscing; Jeremiah knows this, Jeremiah can’t stand this, Jeremiah wishes that he could pull Bruce into his lap and lovingly feed him by hand—and doesn’t seem to realize that Selina is looking at him just as much as she is looking at the photos. Concern is starkly evident on her features, and towards the end of the album she even pointedly lifts a piece of toast with jam from her own plate up to Bruce’s mouth.

“You need to eat even when you’re sad, kid,” she says under her breath. “I swear, some things about you never change.” Bruce huffs out a muted laugh and takes a bite of the proffered bread. 

Jeremiah excuses himself from the table, because if he stays he feels as though he might be overcome by the urge to pierce Selina’s flesh multiple times with a fork, but when he goes he is followed. 

And not by the person who he wants to be followed by.

When he whirls around Selina pauses, just out of arm’s reach, crossing her arms and looking him up and down as if Jeremiah is the one intruding, here, instead of the other way around.

“Is there something that I can help you with?” He asks as politely as he can manage. Inwardly he has to remind himself not to make any sort of scene, because if he gets into a fight now, when Selina is destined to meet a sudden and mysterious end very soon, Bruce is smart enough to find it at least somewhat suspicious.

“You keep hanging around,” Selina tells him flatly. “Bruce told me that you’ve been coming over every weekend for months, now.”

“I’m family.” He is, and though he’d much rather be closer and more intimate than a brother-in-law there was no denying that he and Bruce had been bound together the moment that Bruce and Jerome had said ‘I do’. He was Bruce’s _real_ family. Not Alfred, and certainly not her. “And I’m the only one who Bruce feels like he can talk to about Jerome and be understood.” Something like regret flashes across Selina’s features. Jeremiah revels in it. “And similarly, Bruce is the only one who I can talk to about my brother and feel as though I am being empathized with and not pitied. We both lost someone close to us, someone who many people found difficult to understand, who many people seemingly have found difficult to miss.”

Selina is silent for a long moment. Even she hadn’t mourned the loss of Jerome in the way that Bruce felt that she should have. She didn’t miss Jerome. Didn’t feel agonized that his life had ended so suddenly and tragically. She had just been another person who felt sad that Bruce was alone again. 

“Jerome hardly ever talked about you.”

“From what I understand my brother rarely spoke about any parts of his life before he and Bruce met. That’s why I brought Bruce the album. He deserves to know more than what was shared with him.” Jeremiah brushes past her on the way back to the kitchen, intent on taking the spot that she’d vacated. “If Jerome were still alive I’m sure he would have eventually opened up more, but unfortunately I am the only link left to Jerome’s past, and I am the only one who can share these stories with Bruce, now.”

How tragic.

How delightful.

Jeremiah smothers a smile when Selina leaves not even an hour later. 

x-x-x

During his second week of vacation he watches Bruce and follows Bruce—sighing dreamily at the idea that someday soon they will be together every day without Jeremiah having to conceal himself from behind the tinted windows of a car—but he also has the unhappy task of stalking Selina, now, in order to figure out enough about her routine so that Jeremiah can destroy her without any suspicion being cast upon him. 

She frequently takes short-cuts through rougher parts of town, she drinks at shady bars, she hangs out with ruffians and delinquents. It’s almost as if she’s purposefully making it easy for him to get away with her murder.

He longs to cut her open with a knife and make her scream and bleed for hours, but such a slow death would definitely be seen as personal if the body happened to be discovered, so he’d ultimately decided to shoot her instead. Gun violence in Gotham was dreadfully out of hand, and he doubted that anyone except for Bruce would bat an eye at yet another low-life falling victim to it. 

But Bruce will forget her. His mourning will be brief. His grief will dissipate under the weight of Jeremiah’s love.

In all of his careful observations, Selina was really the only person who he had to worry about stealing Bruce’s attention away from him. Once she was dealt with all that Bruce would have left was Alfred, a useful non-threat who Jeremiah had mercifully decided could be allowed to live, and Jeremiah.

Jeremiah always. Jeremiah forever. Jeremiah even in death, because he would never allow death to part them. 

Jeremiah will be the one making Bruce radiant with happiness, soon. 

On Thursday night he tracks Selina down at a shady bar. When she leaves he follows her out the back, and through an incredibly dubious alleyway. 

Murdered in an alley, he thinks, just like Bruce’s parents. 

It feels like destiny. 

He shoots her from behind. Cold. Calculated. Distant. He wants her to suffer—at least for a few minutes—so he doesn’t unload even more bullets into her body, nor does he call her name, or approach her in order to mock her in her final moments as he might have if they were truly able to be alone for a set amount of time. He doesn’t need her knowing that it is he who shot her so that she can leave a dying message, and he does not have the time to stand watch at the scene of the crime so that he can be stumbled upon by someone who will later be used to try and identify him. 

He leaves her behind to bleed out, alone and terrified, sure that she’ll die long before anyone finds her. 

But he receives a frantic call from Bruce early Friday morning, babbling about a gunshot wound and surgery and Selina hanging on by a thread, and he realizes that he must have miscalculated. 

“It’s okay, Bruce, it’s okay,” he soothes. Jeremiah will make everything okay. Jeremiah will do whatever he has to do. “I’ll take the day off from work. I’ll come as soon as I can. Which hospital are you at?”

Waiting for hours to leave so that Bruce remains under the impression that Jeremiah is not residing in the city, right under his nose, is agony. Seeing Bruce in the waiting room, face hidden behind his hands with only Alfred there to give him any comfort, makes him ache.

The way that Bruce looks up at him when Alfred leans to whisper of Jeremiah’s arrival in his ear, the way he stumbles up and towards him, the way he falls into Jeremiah’s warm embrace like it is where he is meant to be, feels like heaven. 

Bruce is in his arms again, and Jeremiah doesn’t think that he can stand to let him go this time. Doesn’t think he can stand another week of separation. Jeremiah has been patient. Jeremiah has been kind. Jeremiah deserves this.

Jeremiah will never leave Bruce behind ever again. 

“Jeremiah.” Bruce grips at him tightly. Jeremiah will be here for him from now on; to comfort and treasure and love. “I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing that you can do, Bruce.” Jeremiah runs a hand through his hair, more self-indulgent than comforting, though Bruce will not notice the difference. He locks eyes with Alfred, who seems relieved that Bruce has someone else so ready to support him through this newest tragedy. It’s almost enough to make Jeremiah smirk. “We’ll both just have to wait and see. I’m here for you, Bruce. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

There was a slim chance that Selina would survive the surgery.

But she wouldn’t make it out of this hospital alive.

Jeremiah won’t allow it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final countdown to Jeremiah absolutely losing his shit has already begun. The man is not happy.
> 
> Run, Bruce, run.

Jeremiah pets a hand through Bruce’s hair, adoring and reverent, but Bruce doesn’t even glance at him. Instead his gaze and attention is, as ever, focused on that which does not matter.

“Why do all these terrible things keep happening to the people I’m close to?” 

Because we’ll be better for it in the end, my darling.

Jeremiah shifts closer to Bruce, but still Bruce does not look at him. He winds his fingers tighter in Bruce’s hair, an impulsive desire to pull the strands and make him look nearly overcoming him, but he manages to unclench his fingers before he can do such a thing. Instead he looks at Selina, pale and barely breathing in her hospital bed, and there is a brief moment where he cannot keep the smile off of his face.

“I don’t want her to be alone,” Bruce whispers lowly. “What if she wakes up, and she’s all alone?”

Jeremiah’s fingers clench again. Bruce doesn’t even seem to notice that Jeremiah is no longer soothingly running a hand through his hair. Doesn’t even seem to notice him, at all.

But when Alfred walks into the hospital room Bruce’s eyes dart towards him, and Jeremiah has to remove his hand from Bruce’s hair because the urge to pull it—make him look, even if it hurts him, make him look, it would be for the best, in the end—comes back even stronger.

“Alfred,” Bruce’s voice trembles. “I want to stay the night.”

“No.” Alfred and Jeremiah’s voices mesh together, which is perhaps a good thing, because Jeremiah can tell that his tone is not what it ought to have been. It did not sound understanding and consoling, it did not sound gentle and kind. It sounded angry. But his anger had been tempered by Alfred’s fatherly voice, and neither Alfred nor Bruce seem to realize how much that he just slipped up.

Neither Alfred nor Bruce seem to notice that he’d spoken, at all.

“You need to rest, Master B. You’ve been here since five this morning. You haven’t slept, and you’ve barely eaten. It’s been a long day, and Selina wouldn’t want you driving yourself into the ground worrying about her.”

“I don’t want her to be alone,” Bruce murmurs, and Alfred approaches Bruce to settle his hands upon his shoulders.

Jeremiah has to look away, glaring at the figure on the hospital bed that was stealing all of Bruce’s attention, even unconsciously. He should have shot her again after all. Again and again, until her body was riddled with holes. How is it that, even now, he is the one being made into an interloper when really it is everyone else who intrudes upon his time with Bruce?

It won’t be that way for much longer, though. Selina cannot run, cannot fight, cannot hide, cannot ask for help. She’s a sitting duck right now. An easy target. When Jeremiah secretly returns to her bedside all he will need is a few minutes alone to smother her to death with a pillow and then things will finally become as they ought to be, with Bruce’s attention fully focused on him; now and forever. 

“I’ll stay here tonight,” Alfred states firmly. “If anything happens, I’ll call you.”

Some of Jeremiah’s roiling agitation begins to fade away.

A teary-eyed Bruce desperate for comfort; the intimacy that was meant to happen in the aftermath of a funeral. He’ll put Bruce’s phone on silent so that his attention isn’t caught up by calls. He’ll make Bruce feel good, make him forget, maybe even slip him a little something to deepen his sleep so that he wouldn’t notice when Jeremiah leaves or returns to their bed. Alfred couldn’t stay at Selina’s bedside the entire night. He would leave eventually—for food or drink or to use the facilities—and when he came back Selina will have peacefully passed on in her sleep. In the morning Bruce will awaken, will see the missed calls, will break down when he hears the news.

And Jeremiah will be right there beside him.

“I’ll take you home,” he offers.

I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you forget the pain and sadness that you’re feeling. 

I’ll make you forget everything except for me. 

x-x-x

But it does not go as he plans. It does not go as it should. Bruce is hurt and sad and _lonely_ but whatever Jeremiah does—hold him close and pet his hair and speak to him lowly and soothingly—Bruce doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t see him. Doesn’t react to him. 

Jeremiah can’t stand it, can’t stand it, can’t stand it—

“You don’t need to worry about her anymore,” he grits through his teeth, the comforting veneer of his voice starting to fade away. He’s been playing pretend for too long. For months. He’s exhausted from faking emotions that he doesn’t have. “Alfred is with her. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Until she’s finally dead. Until she’s finally gone. Until she’s finally buried and you’re free to forget all about her and focus on me, like you should have ever since I held you at the wake. Ever since I held you at the wedding. 

Didn’t you feel it, even back then? Didn’t it feel _right_ , being in my arms?

“I’m here for you, Bruce.” He holds Bruce’s hands, perhaps a little too tightly, but Bruce turns to look at him. Even if it hurt him, Jeremiah had finally made him look. Jeremiah would hurt him again, to keep him looking. Not out of a desire to cause him pain, only out of love. Only ever out of love. “And I’m all you need. You don’t have to worry about Selina.”

“She’s my friend, of course I’m going to worry about her.” Bruce’s fingers gently grip back at Jeremiah’s. He needed Jeremiah. Even if it sometimes hurt him, he needed Jeremiah. Bruce would forgive the fleeting instances of pain, because he needed Jeremiah. “It’s just like I’d worry about you, if you were hurt.”

His blood turns to ice. It stings. It aches. Jeremiah deserves _more_ than Selina. Selina deserves _less_ than what she’s getting. She doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t—

“She doesn’t deserve your concern,” tumbles out of his mouth, because he’s too irritated, and he feels it too strongly, to keep the words back. Hurt flashes across Bruce’s features, but Jeremiah doesn’t regret saying it. The truth could hurt, but it was better to hear it than to believe a lie. It was better to let Bruce experience brief pains than to let his attention wander. Jeremiah would comfort and console afterwards, just as he had when he’d left Bruce behind with the assumption that Jeremiah was angry with him. It would be better for them, in the end.

“Jeremiah.” His voice is subdued, almost devastated. He actually lets go of Jeremiah’s hands and pulls away from Jeremiah’s too-tight grip. “How could you say something like that?”

“Because you don’t need her. I’m all that you need.” Bruce’s grief will dissipate into nothingness under the profound weight of Jeremiah’s everlasting love. Bruce will come to realize that Jeremiah is telling the truth. He tries to grab onto Bruce’s hands again, desperate for that physical contact, but Bruce doesn’t even allow him that much. Bruce stands up from the couch and Jeremiah stands as well, heart pounding and empty hands clenching. Bruce rebuffing him leaves Jeremiah feeling sick, hollow, and even more rage towards that damn woman in her hospital bed and his damn brother in his grave. It was because of them that Bruce was acting this way. They’d sunk their claws into him so deeply that broken pieces of them had been left inside for Bruce’s skin to heal over. Jeremiah would need to tear those pieces out. “I’m all that you’ve ever needed, Bruce, darling. Why is it taking you so long to figure that out?”

Jeremiah steps towards him but Bruce steps back, and Jeremiah feels himself unravel even further; anger and misery and all terrible things igniting to life inside of him.

Bruce has never retreated from him.

Bruce looks at him. There’s something sharp in his eyes, something that Jeremiah has never seen directed at himself before. He feels as if Bruce wants to pin him. Wants to open him up and expose him. Jeremiah would let him, Jeremiah would let him as long as Bruce admitted how much he needed and loved him. But then Bruce looks away, and their connection breaks. 

“I need to be alone right now.” 

Bruce starts walking away. Away from Jeremiah, who he should never walk away from, who he should never hide away from, and Jeremiah is briefly so shaken by it that he stands frozen for a few precious seconds. Every carefully maintained part that makes up his outward personality begins to break down at the sight of Bruce’s back. 

“Wait, Bruce, don’t walk away from me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Jeremiah. Leave me alone.”

“No.” Jeremiah closes the distance between them. Bruce could have walked away faster, if he really wanted to go. Bruce was teetering on the edge of self-discovery. Bruce knew that he didn’t actually want to leave Jeremiah behind. “No, I won’t.” He roughly grabs onto one of Bruce’s wrists. 

Bruce swings around, sharp eyes beginning to burn with something that Jeremiah has never seen before. He’s beautiful, even like this. He was beautiful even when he’d been crying. He’ll be beautiful even when Jeremiah has to hurt him while proving his point. “Let go,” he demands.

“No.” Jeremiah grips him tighter and yanks. Bruce stumbles forward, but he braces himself and tugs back before he can be forced into the loving circle of Jeremiah’s arms. “Never. I can’t let you go, Bruce. Don’t you understand? Don’t you realize?” Jeremiah can feel his nails beginning to dig into the soft skin of Bruce’s wrist. He’s holding him tight enough to bruise, but it’s okay, it will pass. Jeremiah will tell him the thing that he’s been longing to say, and then Bruce will approach him willingly, and Jeremiah will adoringly kiss every little pain away.

“Bruce, I love you.”

He’s dreamt of this moment, fantasized of this moment. He’s thought about it ever since the wedding. In his mind’s eye he’s always seen Bruce smile, seen him glow with satisfaction; radiating love and bliss and acceptance. Now that he’s said it he has to do it again; has to whisper it in Bruce’s ear as he holds him, and croon it as they kiss, and proclaim it over and over when they finally make love for the first time before Jeremiah slips away to finish what he’d started with Selina. He’ll tell Bruce again in the morning when he receives the news of her passing. He’ll tell Bruce every day, multiple times a day. 

“I love you,” he declares, and Bruce looks upon him—

Pale and drawn, the blood leeched from his face. 

“Jeremiah.” The overly-cautious sound of Bruce’s voice is almost enough to break his heart. “I love Jerome. I always will.”

That name again. _That fucking name._

“Stop talking about him.” He cannot keep the snarl off of his face, and there is no way for him to hide it. He finds that he doesn’t care anymore. He is so, so sick of hiding. Bruce wanted to open him up and expose him? Jeremiah will do it himself, for him, all for him. “He’s dead, Bruce. He’s been dead for half a year. It’s time to forget about him.”

“He was my _husband_.” Bruce is trying to pull away, but Jeremiah refuses to let go. “He was your _brother_.”

“Not anymore.” Jeremiah tries to reach out with his other hand and Bruce begins to struggle even harder. It makes his heart ache, for Bruce to be trying so hard to get away from him. It makes him want to make sure that Bruce will never want to get away, make sure that he can’t even attempt it. “Now he’s just a corpse in the ground.”

Bruce’s free hand whips out, and Jeremiah barely sees it coming towards him before it comes into sudden, stinging contact with his face. Jeremiah is left reeling, and Bruce finally wrenches his hand away.

“Get out,” Bruce says sharply, tears pricking his eyes. “Right now.”

Jeremiah raises a hand to his aching cheek. Whatever fragments of his mask which had managed to remain in place during his and Bruce’s confrontation have fallen away. He can tell. Bruce looks at him, and the anger is still evident, but there’s something like fear, too, lurking behind his eyes. Jeremiah doesn’t _want_ Bruce to be afraid of him, but at the same time he _should_ be afraid. Jeremiah has done so much for Bruce. Has been so good to him, has mourned with him and comforted him and shown him that he _didn’t need Jerome, he’d never needed Jerome_.

“No.” He hardly recognizes the sound of his own voice. “No. I won’t leave you, Bruce. I’m better than that. I’m better than Jerome. He left you, Bruce. He left you one night, and he never came back. You deserve better.” Jeremiah steps forward, and again Bruce backs away from him. “You deserve me, just like I deserve you. Why are you so set on fighting against it?”

Something shifts on Bruce’s face. A spark of recognition followed by a quickly growing dread. 

“All this time that you’ve been mourning with me… You never asked about the police investigation, besides that one time after the funeral.” The anger has faded away and Bruce begins to shuffle his feet backwards, slowly, as if Jeremiah is a predator. “Detective Gordon… He told me that for Jerome’s murder to have happened the way that it did, it would have likely been someone that he was close to that pushed him.”

Jeremiah doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

Bruce turns and runs.

Jeremiah gives chase. 

His heart pounds in his ears as he follows after Bruce—running away as if Jeremiah means to kill him when all Jeremiah ever wanted to do was love him—he leaps over overturned pieces of furniture, set on pushing himself to his limit to catch up with Bruce; to hold him, to press kisses to his face, to reassure him that all Jeremiah had done was for him, was for _them_. Bruce was surprised, but once the shock wore off… Once the grief wore off… Once he allowed himself to think about the meaning behind the grand acts of love that Jeremiah had performed…

Bruce turns sharply, slamming a door behind him.

The lock clicks into place before Jeremiah has a chance to wrench it open.

“Bruce!” He twists the handle and pulls, just in case, but the door doesn’t budge. “Don’t hide away from me! I hate it when you hide away from me!” Bruce doesn’t need to hide from him. Never from him. Jeremiah _loves_ him. He is quiet for a moment, taking the time to catch his breath, and from beyond the door he hears something that makes his heart clench.

Bruce is crying; uncontrollable, gushing sobs, just like he had in the car after the funeral, and just like back then Jeremiah is not right there with him to provide comfort, and just like back then he cannot stand it.

He can’t hide it, anymore. He can’t hide anything, anymore. 

He slams his open palms against the wooden barrier, the one thing keeping him apart from the only person in his life that he has ever loved. “Bruce! Bruce, darling, open the door!”

“No.” Bruce’s voice warbles in between his sobbing. Jeremiah can picture the tears in his glossy eyes, the wan cast of his face, the twisting of his mouth. “You killed him, didn’t you? It was you. You—you’ve been lying to me about everything, all this time.”

“No, no, Bruce. I haven’t lied about everything.” He aches. Being separated from Bruce is like having his heart removed from his chest. “I love you, Bruce. I’ve loved you for so long. Everything I did, I did for us. Open the door,” he asks, trying to sound soft, approachable, safe. “We’re meant to be together. Can’t you see? Open the door for me, darling. Let me in. I don’t want to hurt you, Bruce, I want to make you happy.”

“You—” Bruce’s voice cracks. Jeremiah’s fingers begin to curl into fists, his nails scratching against the one thing left that kept him away from Bruce. “You’ve made me miserable. You took Jerome away from me. I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.” Jeremiah punches a fist against the door once, twice. “You can’t mean that, Bruce. Let me in!” He steps back a few paces and runs, ramming into the door. He can hear Bruce muffle a shriek, and he hates that Bruce is scared but Bruce should be scared, and he hates that they’re separated but they won’t be separate much longer. “I did it all for you! Because you deserve better.” He slams his body against the door, again and again. “Jerome didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you. He made you smile? I’ve made you smile, too!” He can hear Bruce yell at him to stop, but he can’t. He can’t. Bruce would understand, soon, why he couldn’t stop, why he wouldn’t stop. “I love you, _I love you, Bruce,_ I love you so much more than he ever could.” Bruce is still crying, and it’s driving him into a frenzy. He’ll break his body to get through this door. He can’t leave to find an axe, he can’t let Bruce escape so that he can hide away somewhere that Jeremiah wouldn’t be able to find him, he can’t risk it. 

He can’t stand having even more space between them.

He pauses for a moment, resting his forehead against the wood.

“Everything I’ve done has been for you, Bruce. Open the door.”

Beyond the wood Bruce makes a muted, agonized sound. 

Jeremiah changes tactics, kicking the door near the handle, putting everything he has into it. Bruce is crying and alone, and Jeremiah is going to wipe away his tears and comfort him and love him. Jeremiah won’t let Bruce be alone ever again. Bruce will always have Jeremiah. Jeremiah will always have Bruce. It’s how it is meant to be. How _they_ are meant to be. 

He’s lost track of how many times he’s slammed the bottom of his foot against the door when he finally hears a creak.

The door is starting to give.

He kicks harder, wild with his need to remove this one last obstacle, this one last barrier. He can’t even hear Bruce, anymore, over the sounds of his wildly beating heart and his destruction of the door. The wood warps, the metal components of the lock clack together as things shift out of place, and then—

The door swings open and slams against the wall. Jeremiah sees a flash of Bruce, huddled on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, before the door arcs back.

He holds out a hand to keep it from closing again. 

He pushes it all the way open.

It is quiet except for the beating of his heart and Bruce’s soft, choking cries.

Jeremiah slowly steps inside. Bruce looks at him; wide, red-rimmed eyes focusing only on him. Bruce begins to stand on shaking legs, but there’s nowhere for him to go. Jeremiah is blocking the only way out.

“Bruce.” He opens his arms, and Bruce doesn’t come towards him, instead pressing against the wall as if he means to meld with it. Learning about everything like this must have been such a shock. Jeremiah will forgive him for running away and hiding, so long as it never happens again. He steps closer and closer, and Bruce is trembling and pale, fresh tears running down his face as his mouth opens and closes, unable to say anything through his harsh, uneven breaths. “Bruce, I love you.”

Jeremiah is standing before him. His hands reach out. They skim over Bruce’s shaking shoulders and begin to pull him forward, away from the wall, towards Jeremiah’s chest.

Bruce stumbles—he came forward so easily; he must realize, he must, that this was all for the best. He must know that what he feels for Jeremiah is the same thing that Jeremiah feels for him. It’s love, it’s love, it’s love—and Jeremiah closes the remaining distance between them completely. 

Bruce is in his arms again, and Jeremiah would stay like this forever if he could.

“Bruce…”

It feels right. It _is_ right.

This is the way it is supposed to be. 

“I’ll never leave you alone.”


End file.
